A Friend in Need
by rosereddawn
Summary: Dean knows what hunger means.


A pot of beef gumbo sizzles on the stove. Its savory, mouth-watering smell wavers through the open door to where Dean's leaning against the railing. A beer bottle is dangling from his hand and his collar's popped up high against the biting wind that blows across the river.

This isn't Louisiana. No damp heat, no mosquitoes, and that's about the only good part, Dean thinks, as he watches the waves lap against the hull of the boat. Conifers cover the riverbanks. The thick blanket of clouds overhead is the same grey as the water below and it's all too empty around here, reminiscent of places he'd rather not be.

"If you're out here scouting for deer, this is the wrong way you're looking."

Benny's turned up in the doorway. Flour stains the dark apron he donned, like it's still a diner he's working.

"Just tell me it's done already?"

Benny huffs a laugh and nods. With the tip of his boot, he worries the worn through wood of the planks for a moment. "You know I don't mind if you reconsider."

"Yeah, you said that." Dean takes a long pull from the bottle, shakes his head. "Quid pro quo, Benny. Now come on, I'm starving."

The table's set with one plate, one spoon. Benny serves and takes the seat to Dean's left, leans back to stretch his legs. "Dig in."

Dean needn't be told twice. The first bite alone has him rolling his eyes with pleasure, the spices rich and dark on his tongue. The meat is tender enough to part under the blunt edge of the spoon, the green peppers soft but not overcooked, and he barely takes time to swallow between bites.

Soon a comfortable warmth spreads from his middle. For a while he forgets all about the cold wind that's whining outside; forgets about the grey skies waiting both above and up ahead. The world narrows down to a dim, warm cabin and Benny's quiet presence. Dean knows to savor each bite, each of these small pleasures.

Later, when he leans back in the creaking chair, moaning around a last mouthful of beef, Benny brings him a glass of water and stops to knead his shoulders. "Eat up, brother," he says.

"You're a hell of a cook, man, but I'm beat."

"And you ain't even tried the pie yet." Benny's voice drops, a hoarse, low drawl so close to Dean's ear, to his neck, that he can't help tensing up.

But Benny just reaches across his shoulder and pulls the plate closer, gesturing towards a last chunk of meat. "You'll be needing your iron," he says.

Giving blood - or losing blood, the difference merely one of quantum - is nothing Dean's a stranger to. A home-cooked meal with it, however, that's a first. So he unceremoniously pops the button on his jeans and does as he's told, eats up while Benny sits back down, hunched over, hands in a hard grip between his knees.

Dean knows what hunger means.

It's been days. The usual ways ran dry, or turned too risky right now with a group of hunters keeping an eye out. Neither of them can afford to draw attention and Dean figured, there's an easier solution right here.

It's not because he was expecting this to happen - though you don't start running with a vampire and not think about him hearing the heart pump in your chest. Dean knows, oh hell does he know. But Benny has never once scratched his teeth against Dean's skin, never once done a thing to warrant vigilance.

This, however, bringing and keeping a vampire topside, this is on Dean. This is his responsibility.

So he puts the cutlery down, shoves his chair back this time, definite.

"Got me pampered," he offers and rubs a hand down the swell of his belly. "Only fair to return the favor, right?" He lifts his chin an inch, just enough to draw attention to his throat. The meal's got him sated in ways that mean the smile barely takes effort.

When Benny looks up, eyes shadowed and fangs protruded, measuring him up not as friend but as a snack, Dean can't help it: his skin crawls.

Time to change his mind is up.

Benny's on his feet, with all the speed and rigor Dean remembers. He can barely brace himself before he's pinned and sharp teeth force into the crook of his neck. Benny is cold hands, cold mouth pressing against the hot gush of blood. All Dean can do is hang on tight.

He starts counting the seconds. Counts the times Benny swallows against his skin. He's too aware of his heartbeat speeding up, of the slothful ache of his body.

The faith he's put in Benny turns ludicrous against the sheer force of hunger. Even without the hard grip that keeps him still, he'd not stand a chance to keep a vampire from draining him. His fingers find Benny's shirt and tighten; he slams the heels hard against Benny's chest. Can't help the panicked edge to his voice when he spits out Benny's name, over and over, louder each time until finally, with a sigh like waking from a frenzy, Benny eases up.

He swallows once more, and again, slower now. Like he's just waiting for his mouth to fill rather than actively bleeding Dean. At last he detaches himself, straightens up and places a firm hand over the wound. Dean can still hear his heavy breaths and the smacking sounds as he licks his mouth clean.

"I got it. Come on, Benny, I got it."

He shoves at him, all awkward angles, and then puts his own hand over the sticky, wet mess that is his neck. His pulse is still too high, but there's no headache, no dizziness. If he's feeling uncomfortably full, it's his own fault.

Benny does him the favor to go clatter about in the kitchen, behind Dean's back and out of sight. All Dean needs is a minute to catch his breath.

The faucet's running, some cupboards open and close, and then Benny comes up, holding a gauze swab out for him. "Here, should've got this out straight away for you." His hands are washed clean, and so is his face when Dean throws him a quick upward glance. Dean's fingers accepting the gauze are blood-smeared in turn.

"Made a bit of a mess out of you," Benny says. The chair scratches over the floorboards when he pulls it around to sit down. He folds his hands again like he did before, but he seems comfortable now, the tension gone. "I apologize for that. You feeling all right?"

"Yeah," Dean says. "Yeah, I'm good."

He gives it time until the blood's clogging, then washes himself over the kitchen sink. Hands, neck, the stained collar of his shirt. He drinks a glass of water against the onset of thirst. Through the tarnished window, he can see the treetops swaying, over on the far side of the river. The boat's so still safe for the mumble of the waves.

"I owe you," Benny says.

Dean shrugs it off. "So what was that you said about pie?"


End file.
